Yesterday I was invited to lunch at The Hilton. On a blind date. The banker I was meeting turned out to be a bovver boy. He had a number two haircut and was wearing a white shirt and black trousers. Banker? I'm guessing the rest of his uniform was in the cloakroom. We got the lift to the 28th floor. Food will help, I thought. On arrival, he guided me away from the restaurant and into the bar. Not a word was said. I ordered a sherry. And sat on my seat edge, ready to do a FloJo. I explained away my obvious discomfiture, saying the hotel's outrageous car park charges had given me palpitations. We made small talk. Suddenly, apropos nothing, he said loudly: "You're every man's nightmare. You're obsessive and demanding. In a relationship, I can see you'd be the taker." Nonplussed, I sought diversion. I told him humorously about the mum who'd joined Sugardaddie.com. "Why don't you do that?" he said. "You're obviously high maintenance." And there's the proof that everything is relative:-o When I ventured that I was a tad mature and heavy for the average zillionaire, he looked me up and down. "You could do it." I felt a lot lighter when I left him, that's for sure. Bizarrely, he disappeared down Park Lane, promising to give me some contacts at Merrill Lynch. "You know your stuff and they need the help," he said. I still don't know what to make of it:-o

I asked my eldest, agog, why she had volunteered to spend a week with the army. She was nonplussed: "To meet boys, of course." Today, in pouring rain, I dropped her and a classmate off at the barracks. It's part of their work experience... The car was routinely searched. As I opened the boot, the squaddie's jaw dropped. Each girl had a case the size of the Rosetta Stone. Four nights; ten changes of clothes. Every night is party night in Aldershot... I went to the office to register them and swooned. There is something about men in uniform. It's primal. I experienced three coup de foudres in four minutes. Fickle heart! Leaving the girls to their grisly fate, I headed home smiling. I thought about the youngest. Who is off to Calais in the morning. Quelle horreur: I suddenly realised her passport was in Oxford. With her father:-o Which explains my tryst in the Holiday Inn car park by High Wycombe roundabout, an hour ago. It was like a scene from All the President's Men - two figures emerging from the shadows for the furtive handing over of documents and cash. Thirty Euros;-) Driving back, I stopped to buy the little one a BP packed lunch. And ended up buying a packed breakfast too. She leaves at six. A mother has to draw the line somewhere...

My business partner has sent me an email: "You at a whiteboard with twelve people in the room, is like watching Freddie Mercury doing an intimate evening at Ronnie Scott's. You belong onstage at Wembley." What sauce! I can't see myself as the Billy Graham of language. I'd come out in hives if the punters started talking in tongues:-o Was it the Rev Sun Moon that ran harems and drove around his compound in a Rolls? That's more my sort of thing. Except I'm hideous in orange and I don't suit robes. What's a guru anyway? It's just a touchy-feely euphemism for consultant-on-a-soapbox. Hideously rich consultant-on-a-soapbox. One of my friends once took a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner. She was fighting the big birds' cause. It fell apart when she got heckled. "Why is dating a fat woman like owning a moped?" asked a wag. "Because they're both a good ride, but you don't want your mates to see you with one!" At this juncture we made our excuses and left, as they say in the News of the World. Funnily enough, a flyer came through the door recently, inviting us to some guru-fest at West Ham football ground. Maybe that's all it's good for since they lost the cup final;-) There's only one game we'll be watching this weekend. That's tomorrow at three. We've taken Paracetamol to cool our World Cup fevers. Today, far more girlie pursuits beckon. Brent Cross here we come:-)

Has it really been a week? I feel like the soldier returning from combat - wearied, scarred - scared, even - but bloody and victorious:-) It's been an epic time. Two workshops delivered, and my work partner wounded in battle. She says it's not for her. She can deal with NHS types, but not sharp men in sharp suits. I find the inquiry and presience of the city slicker exciting and challenging. She left our last gig emotionally ravaged. I want more; she's had enough. The problem is our different disciplines. And different outlooks. I'm building on journalistic skills. Creating rapport to ease the movement of information around an organisation, and to increase cooperation and productivity. Communication for me is about winning. She, on the other hand, is teaching variations on assertiveness. Which is about loss limitation. Standing up in this difficult world and being heard. The two are connected, but they're not the same. One is household goods. The other is bedlinen. Who's up for a half day workshop with a bolshy woman who gets you talking?;-) Aside from the business - and there's still the new website to be sorted - all is well in the dustbowl that is the London Borough of Camden. Sunshine, coffee, chocolate, and happy kids... Yesterday I took the abdominiser out of storage. It must be summer:-)

Last night I took my prettiest godson to Asia de Cuba. It's not often one is seen on the town with a fit 21-year-old. Even if he is wearing zirconia studs:-o We discussed God, who is looming large in his life at the moment. He's tried drugs, smoking and one night stands and found them wanting. He needed something to fill the gap... When his mum and I became friends we were a year younger than he is now. We were building our chosen careers. We'd both left home. She'd been married and divorced. Today she runs one of the country's most high-profile companies. He, meanwhile, remains unfocused. He's been selling advertising. The money goes on his wardrobe. Jeans costing £175. Ooer, perhaps they weren't zirconia? I fear he is becoming the Victoria Beckham of his family... Earlier, I'd been to a trustees meeting where some Posh Spice grooming would have helped. The board is made up entirely of women. Two of whom had dense underarm foliage. Curiously, it appeared to be combed. Pondering this, I found it impossible to concentrate on the serious business. This morning I've concluded that their hairs were smoothed by roll-on deoderants. You couldn't use aerosols and wear vests, could you? There'd be white bits bobbing around in the undergrowth. Which reminds me, I must make an appointment with the barber:-)

Aware of my limitations as a faux city-slicker, I gamely visited the countryside yesterday in a pair of daisy-print clogs. I wanted to be as one with the earth. At the local show, they started to rub, but it seemed churlish to complain when gasping Morris Dancers were turning as hot and shiny as the ancient farm machinery on display. The dog show was a canine out-of-body display. Mutts staggered around like drunks, rosettes askew. People were stripping off. It's all tattoos and midriff bulge in the outback. Back at the millhouse, we left the kids to cool down and our hostess, my mother, and I climbed into the punt with a picnic. The punt pole was broken. My old ma, 75 and extremely game, stood at one end, rowing us upriver. She was nearly decapitated when we went under the bridge. Four youths with a swimming labrador, watched in amazement. "I'm a learner driver with two instructors," she shouted at them. We returned for a delicious dinner. Then the kids had a go at boating. Within ten minutes the three of them were trapped in water lillies. An hour later, they'd moved six feet. Our hostess had to tow them in by canoe. In all the excitement, I couldn't mention my feet. After all, we were being young and free! This morning, I could not wear shoes... "You look like you've been crucified," my eldest said, inspecting the damage. What was it Thomas Jefforson said? Ah yes. The price of freedom is vigilance. Next time I'll wear flip flops...

How is it that the city is silent in the sun? All day the doors and windows have been open, but all I've heard is birdsong. And a small cheer across the backyards when England went one up in the football. I have not yet forgiven Steven Gerrard's own goal when Liverpool played Chelsea. It was a vital championship match. On that basis, it felt hypocritical to cheer the homeland's accidental victory. Indeed, proceedings were so dull I'd have given up watching, but I had visitors. Why anyone would want to watch a match in my company is uncertain. But they arrived in good cheer. With two boxes of Turkish pizzas: like Italian, but soggy. My eldest had decamped to a friend's. The youngest, after a tearful interlude in which she claimed her visit to Hadrians Wall had left her 'traumatised', was off to lunch and a musical with a classmate. It's all right for some:-o Tomorrow we are off to Suffolk for a dog show. The little terrier we occasionally babysit, is taking part. We will be going mob handed - my teeny-weeny mum, a large leg of lamb that she has marinaded, me, the progeny, and an unwieldy 6ft 2" teenage girl who's spending the night here. We are many hued. That should give them a scare in Bury. Watch this space;-)

Today I renewed my resident's parking permit. "Shall I date it for tomorrow?" the man said. "It'll be luckier." As a Buddhist I do not fear the number 666. If I'm found impaled on a long stake, Fatima Whitbread would be a more likely culprit than the anti-Christ. As for my car, annihilation would be a kindness. The damaged digicam that sits unposted on the back seat has more value than the vehicle itself. If it wasn't for the fact it's taxed and insured, you'd think it belonged to an illegal. Dodging soothsayers and evil monks, I popped into the Royal Free to see my friend H's ma. Aged 90, she's giving the grim reaper a run for his money. Six weeks after a stroke she's back on the whisky and planning a return to work. Tomorrow she has her hair tinted. Back home, I rewrote a piece for one of the dailies and flirted a bit online. I suspect my expectations are way above my pulling abilities, but practice helps:-o My own ma popped round with some letters she wanted typed and stayed for a very jolly dinner with me and the eldest. Afterwards, we all went for a walk. The youngest, meanwhile, is following in the footsteps of Hadrian. She left for Northumberland yesterday wearing a Waitrose bag. It was to honour a classmate who left at half term. I didn't quite get the point, but that's the luxury of youth isn't it? You do things just because you can:-)

My hormones are back on message! It happened while I was in a Hummer. With a single mother who's just joined a dating site called sugardaddie.com to find herself a rich husband. She showed me the picture she’s posted up. A very alluring and not dishonest cleavage shot taken on her phone. “I want security,” she explained, removing her hands from the wheel to billet-doux a texting trillionaire. "He’s on his way to the Chinese Embassy." I didn't ask. Because I was thinking that all those cultural commentators that attack the likes of Heather Mills-McCartney have missed a vital point about "gold digging". Which is that rich men are under no illusion about the women they marry. Indeed, having got where they are through single-mindedness and passion, it’s as much the ambition as the product spec of these beauties that they admire... Passing through King’s Cross, my companion's conversation became alarmingly earthy, which made me anxious as her five-year-old was in the back. And then it hit me. I too am feeling rather... earthy. As we thundered past Regents Park, it was like spring coming to Narnia. I realised that the treadmill of activity and excitement that heralded the company launch last week has clearly acted as an emotional exfoliant. Watch out boys - the mountain may soon be coming on to Mohammed;-)